Hum Little Birdie by Jonathan Fredrick

Author:Jonathan Fredrick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2022-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sitting, Drinking

Next thing I knew, I was sitting against the wall in the hallway outside of the apartment. Hively hovering over me. He snapped his fingers in front of my face.

“Nick? You okay? Nick?”

Gradually, the delirium subsided and the world around me racked slowly back into focus. A cold, wet rag had been placed on the back of my neck. A paramedic, some baby-faced kid, was squatted down beside me inflating a blood pressure cuff that had been wrapped snugly around my bicep. I yanked the cuff off and told him to go away.

“I need to check your vitals, sir.”

“Fuck off. That vital enough?”

The kid frowned, gathered his kit, and stalked off.

“Well,” said Hively. “You’ve met him now.”

“She’s dead,” I rasped.

“Yeah, Nick. She’s gone. It’s Aisha Bryant’s daughter. You knew who it was though, didn’t you? Knew as soon as I told you the location.”

I bobbed my head up and down, dropped my face into my hands.

“Was she your source that placed Momo here the night Scott Barnhard was murdered?”

Another bob of the head.

“C’mon, let’s go somewhere. Can you get up?”

“Maybe.”

I lifted my arm. Hively took hold of it and hoisted me to my feet. After a momentary wobble, the ground evened out beneath me. We walked back down the corridor, hopped the elevator to the ground floor. Outside, a slew of lookie-loos and reporters crowded the yellow tape that had been strung up in the short time since we’d arrived. News Channel 3’s field reporter and cameraman were setting up. Ernie Ciccone from the Cain City Dispatch was there, having jockeyed his way to the front of the horde. He spotted me and whistled sharply to get my attention.

“Malick! Hey, Malick!”

I ignored his calls and drafted behind Hively as he sliced through the throng of onlookers to get to his vehicle parked at the curb. Hively unlocked the doors, I collapsed into the passenger seat and leaned my head forward against the dashboard. Ciccone rapped on the window by my head. I waved him off.

“Not now, Ernie.”

“If not now, when?” he yelled through the glass. “These bodies are stacking up quick. One have anything to do with the other? Who’s the vic? Can you tell me that at least?”

“Later,” I told him.

Hively started up the car, pulled away from the chaos of the sidewalk and began driving through downtown. After circling the shopping district a couple times, he asked where we were going.

I raised my head from the dash, mumbled, “Red Head,” and laid it back down. There weren’t many customers in the bar, a few perched on the stools eating catfish sandwiches, a specialty item Tadpole served only on weekends. Tadpole had seven kids. A couple of the sons fished the Ohio River and supplied a fresh catch at the end of every week.

“Whole bottle?” Tadpole asked after I’d placed my order.

“Whole bottle,” I confirmed. “Two glasses.”

Tadpole looked to Hively, who gave an affirmative nod.

“That’ll be forty bucks flat, gents. Throw in some of that catfish if you’d like, on the house.

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